


Charge

by CeruleanMusings



Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [2]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Cursed Netflix, Cursed spoilers, Gen, Post 1x10, The Weeping Monk is basically a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanMusings/pseuds/CeruleanMusings
Summary: The monk’s eyes rose to the sky. Perhaps if he pleaded to His Grace for the strength not to throttle the boy and his petulant ways, that prayer would be heard.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk & Squirrel
Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840252
Comments: 26
Kudos: 202





	Charge

“What _is_ this?”

Squirrel, such a boisterous boy, didn’t hide his disdain when the Weeping Monk held out his fist towards him. His nose wrinkled in such a spectacular fashion; one would wonder if it were possible that it could ever be unstuck with the effort put behind it.

The Weeping Monk slowly blinked his eyes, lifting his chin to peer at the boy beneath his lashes. Even with an eye swollen nearly shut, the young boy looked up at him, holding a steady, stern gaze. The Weeping Monk pushed a breath out of his nose at the defiance. The young one was hurt and yet, all day, he never said word of how much he was in pain or if they needed to stop for a rest.

The plodded on through the day with barely a break, only stopping to allow the horse to restore its energy and to relieve themselves. Time was of the essence and they had to stay ahead, keep moving, and get safe. The fact that their once sought-after tracker was now who they could possibly be tracking wasn’t lost on him either. They had the advantage, but he knew not to underestimate people, lest their arrogance be shelved with arrows to the neck.

“Food,” the Weeping Monk all but grunted, shoving the handful he’d managed to scavenge towards him. The expression on Squirrel’s face softened but didn’t change together. “ _Eat_ ,” he ordered, his voice hardening. Didn’t the boy understand? They needed to keep their energy up until they reached…wherever it was they were going. Meals prepared by gentle hands would be hard to come by. The open flame flickering nearby was for light purposes only. They couldn’t take the risk of leading anyone else to them.

Squirrel leaned forward and cupped his hands. The Weeping Monk deposited the little bit of food in his hands and turned, gathering his cloak to him. A spike of pain shot up through his side, wobbling his step. A hissing sigh seeped out from between his clenched teeth and he hobbled back over to the rocks he’d taken up residence beside. Squirrel sat atop a patch of soft grass, nestled beneath a large tree. Stars twinkled and poked through the thick canopy above.

The Weeping Monk eased himself down, gritting his teeth until he found some sort of a comfortable position. The rocks weren’t the softest bedding in the world, but it was better than nothing. Nearby flames crackled as they licked and burned up the pile of wood. The heat reached his feet, leaving a blanket of cold to cloak the rest of him. He hugged his cloak closer, breathing slowly. It would do.

“You’re still hurt.”

The Weeping Monk turned his battered face to the young boy, who chewed slowly but kept his eyes on the marked monk. “Yes,” he said.

Squirrel swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t you heal?”

The Weeping Monk stared back. His lips parted slightly, and his eyebrows lowered. Perhaps…he could have. Years ago. Back when he was…when he was a Fey. Back when he was Lancelot. Back when he wasn’t doomed to be damned and made into a tracker, a weapon, a monster.

“I don’t…” The Weeping Monk’s fingers twitched on the stiff threads of his cloak. Even if he tried, would anything happen? If His Grace couldn’t come to him when he needed Him most, when he needed reassurance and a path, how would his magic call to him? “I can’t…”

Nodding, Squirrel wiped his hands on the knees of his pants. He dragged the tip of his boot into the dirt and then tilted his head back, looking upwards. The monk mimicked him, tilting his head back against the rocks, closing his eyes.

“Why did you save me?”

The monk opened one eye. “Do you always speak this much?”

Squirrel nodded. “Mum says I babble more than a brook. Or…well…she _did._ ”

The mention of his mother struck…something deep within him. A strange sort of niggle that pooled and burned, begging for attention. This boy, an orphan at the hands of his own deeds, spoke with an air of familiarity that would be frowned upon with the Red Paladins. With Father Carden. What a luxury he possessed, being able to speak freely without retribution and punishment waiting. The monk closed his eye once more. That niggle flared up again, rolling hard. It was quite uncomfortable. Much like the rock digging into his back.

“Get some sleep,” the monk rasped.

“But I’m not tired.”

The monk grunted. The audacity of this child. “That’s not of my concern. Sleep. We need to be up before dawn.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll keep watch.”

“Then we can trade. I can keep watch too.”

The monk lifted his head at this suggestion, pinning Squirrel with a hard stare and the swift, hard utterance of the word, “ _No._ ” This boy…. The monk would not allow it. He was to be a boy, as much as he could be anymore that is. As much as he would allow himself to be seen as one; a babe so young as him, his drive was admirable, but it could taken, twisted, and crushed. Left a mangled mess only to be molded and shaped into a form that the hands wanted. It was not a desirable fate for his sort. He would know.

 _Lancelot_ would know.

“Sleep. Now.” The monk pointed at the grass beneath Squirrel.

“Fine,” Squirrel huffed and, as he lay, the monk spotted his drooping eyes and the swell of his chest that predated a yawn. “But if I wake up, I’m staying up.”

The monk’s eyes rose to the sky. Perhaps if he pleaded to His Grace for the strength not to throttle the boy and his petulant ways, that prayer would be heard.

The fire crackled on. Crickets chirped and sang somewhere in the distance, overlapping with the soft nickering of his steed nearby. He watched as her form stomped on the grass below before easing herself down to lie for the night.

Limbs heavy and bones weary, the monk kept himself awake, aware, and alert. He didn’t have his two trusty swords on him anymore but that didn’t mean he was completely defenseless. The boy however, that was another story. The monk eyed the boy, head resting on his tucked arms, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. His long lashes brushed his rounded cheeks and his mouth, slightly puckered and parted, allowed air to rustle the grass beneath him with each deep, sleep-filled breath.

A breeze rushed through the camp, bending the dancing flames and combing the top of the grass. Upon his green bed Squirrel’s body clenched, a tremor passing through him, and then eased a second later. The monk set his jaw as the cold seeped down his neck, a contrast to the warm burning against his body littered with wounds.

“Mmmm,” Squirrel mumbled in his sleep, drawing his knees closer to his body. The monk, sucking in a breath, braced his hands on the ground and forced himself up to his feet. A few of his wounds ripped open once more, he was sure. But the pain was pushed to the back of his mind as she shuffled over to the boy, towered over him, and then wrestled with his thick cloak. The cool air caressed his skin and for a few moments he stood, basking in the brief release from the thin layer of sweat and blood covering him.

His fingers curled in the dark fabric, his brittle and ragged nails catching for a moment and then he knelt and draped it over the boy. The minute he was clothed an arm reached out and Squirrel drew the cloak tighter around him. The muscles in his face eased once more and sleep drew him away.

Humming, the monk went back to his cold bed for the night. Dirt shifted beneath his unceremonious landing and a rock pressed against the lone bald spot on the back of his head as he settled in. It wasn’t the best but he could make do. He’d lived through worse, much worse. And Squirrel, he supposed, still had a chance for peace. Even if he took away a lot of it.

That niggle returned, and he briefly wondered if it was due to the little he had eaten before. Maybe it disagreed with his stomach. But when he looked over to the boy, to see if he was taking ill as well, it eased. Squirrel was fine, sleeping soundly.

And, in the shadows of the slow dying fire, of what could be attributed a trick of the light, his mouth pulled up in the corner, slightly so.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://ceruleanmusings.tumblr.com) if you would like to talk about this show! I need people to geek over it with! Edit: This can now also be found on Fanfiction.net


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